Bipolar, Depressed and Pregnant

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

People annoy the fuck out of me. Seriously. I get that
everyone finds human interactions annoying, but I honestly really really hate
them more and more. I hate having to make small talk, I hate the pleasantries
with strangers, I hate responding to text messages and fuck my life if I have
to actually answer the phone.

I had just decided that it was because I’m a bitch, but
I think it’s more than that.

Having to move back home and interact with human beings
all day, every day, has really solidified that I will go into serious, serious
credit card debt before I ever have to live with people again. I am
legitimately losing my god damn mind. All I want in life is to come home to a
house empty of humans with only my furry children waiting for me. No noise
except for my cat screaming at me to feed him and the puppy crying because he’s
so happy to see me. They would never ask me about my day because they can’t.
And god bless them for it.

I just adopted a puppy, Pierre, two weeks ago so I’m
pretty much hanging on by a thread in general right now. I love him so much but
mother fuck a puppy is exhausting. Have you ever tried to make dinner while
running back and forth between two rooms to make sure your puppy isn’t shitting
and/or pissing on the rug or eating someone’s shoes? All you end up with is
burnt food that you don’t even get to eat because right when you sit down the
puppy has to go on his 330th walk of the day. (Sidenote: If you’re trying to
get back to your birth weight, get a puppy. You never have time to eat and you don’t
get to sit down either.) (Other sidenote: someone please help me.) Also, trying
to do laundry while your puppy pulls your clean clothes out of the dryer and
drags them into his water bowl is super fun. You should try it sometime. Even better
is getting to “sleep in” until 6:00 a.m. on weekends because Pierre is sick of
his crate and wants to do sprints up and down the street. I have to say the
most inspiring moment of puppy mom life so far is when Pierre pantsed me during
a walk. Little fucker yanked on my sweat pants and boom, there it is. I’ve been
humbled to the extreme these past two weeks.

I think when I have a dog my retreat from humans becomes
even more necessary. Why would I want to hear about your boring ass day when I
can watch my puppy do bunny hops chasing after crickets? Oh, you’re tired?
Cool, I’ll call you every time I have to get up in the middle of the night to
take the puppy out and see how tired you feel the next day. I don’t have time for
your bullshit Susan. I need to watch Pierre on the dog cam at daycare for fucks’
sake.

There is something to be said for why we need to leave
the nest in our 20’s. The theme of my 30’s has been “leave me the fuck alone”
and that’s not really vibing with my roommate situation. I don’t think anyone
in their 30’s wants to be asked where they are going and what they are doing. Where am I going? I’m going to participate in
a condom-less orgy in a crack den on Skid Row. See ya roomies. It’s gotten to
the point where I wait until they’re both away from the front door and just
sprint out so I don’t have to hear people’s words and respond to them. I would
love to receive the silent treatment. It would be a Christmas fucking miracle!

I’m hoping that when I move to Seattle, and I won’t be
forced to constantly interact with humans, that maybe I’ll actually want to. Or
maybe I’ll go completely feral and get a job working from home, get all my
groceries delivered, and hiss at humans if they try to interact with me. I can legitimately
picture that life and I don’t hate it.

If you don’t hear from me after I move, it’s fine. I
probably just left my cell phone in a gas station bathroom and disappeared to
go live my life. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my Amazon wish list updated so
you can send me and Pierre shit. Byeeeeeeeee!

Friday, March 31, 2017

For those of you who know me personally, even though I
have to say I love those of you that read this and don’t know me a little bit
more, you’re well aware of my plan to get the fuuuuuuck outta California. Yup.
There’s a reason that I’m albino, hate the beach, have never had a bikini body
and have never fucked a surfer and that’s because I am not meant to live in
California. (In retrospect I probably have fucked a surfer but not at the beach
or at a beach related bar so I’m not committing to that as a truth.)

While I try to get my shit together so I’m not one of
those assholes that moves to a new state with nothing and then finds themselves
giving HJ’s in a Burger King parking lot or showing their tits to high school
kids for pocket change (I don’t know if people really do this, but it would
make a great scene from a movie), I’m obviously not on the prowl for a man
friend. Being in a relationship forces me to expend a lot of time, energy and
money. All three of those things are now focused on one goal and no one is
gonna fuck that up for me. Seriously. I will paper cut you until you die. Mama’s
got a plan and it doesn’t involve any boys, bitches, or babies!

Side note: I recently had my birth control implant taken
out and am petrified that I’m going to get pregnant. This is only an interim
issue until I have that blessed IUD shoved into my cervix to ensure I live the
life of my dreams. Side note part two: I have not touched a man in a while so
this fear is unfounded. Side note part three: I will literally pepper spray
and/or taze a penis that comes anywhere near me right now. My male coworker
snuck up behind me in the kitchen this morning and I nearly murdered him with a
bottle of Ranch dressing. The final side note: I was not actually using the
Ranch dressing it was just the closest thing to me and I don’t want to be
judged for eating Ranch dressing in the morning.

Dating has been less than a priority for me for a long
time anyway. Namely because dudes are fucking lame and my roommates gave birth
to me and I just really, really want a dog and can’t commit my affection to
anyone else. But since it could be a yearish until I’m actually pulling my
uhaul into my sweet new place in Seattle, I wouldn’t mind hanging out with some
dudes to remind me why I’ve committed to dying alone. But I don’t want to be
accused of being one of those assholes that gets someone’s balls in a twist and
then peaces out and causes some man tears. So on my dating profiles I’ve made
it very clear that I’m only in California for a little bit longer and then I’m
out. And no one is invited to come with me. NO ONE.

Turns out, all these assholes that pretend they don’t
want to wife down, ARE FULL OF FUCKING SHIT. I’ve never had people try to wife
me so hard since I made it clear ain’t nobody got time for that. Mother fuckers
are coming out of the woodwork with weird ass professions of commitment desiring.
Seriously? GET AWAY FROM ME. All I’m trying to do right now is not get
pregnant, not buy shit I don’t need and stockpile my parent’s medications so I’m
good for at least the first year in Washington. I have DREAMS and GOALS people.
I thought going the casual route would be smooth sailing. NOPE. Anyone who doesn’t look like a
rapist/pedophile/bunny murderer is super bummed out when I confirm that I’m
here for a good time, not a long time. I am so fucking confused.

Is the new trend in 2017 catching feelings? Are we all
trying to husband/wife up so when the Tangerine Tyrant gets us involved in
nuclear war we have someone to barricade ourselves in a basement with? Did we
all give up our medications for lent? Also, should I be trying to nail down one
of those doomsday preppers so I have a place to hide and eat canned Spaghetti O’s
in? Oh shit. I’ll have to ponder that after a couple of vodka tonics tonight.

But for real. Are all the other assholes like me who are
not shitty people, but not trying to find love or commitment, gone? Have they
all succumbed to STD's or gotten married or come out of the closet?

I do want to clarify though that I’m not trying to find
some douchebag dudes to hang out with. I’m not looking at being named in
someone’s 401K disbursement, but I’m not signing up to be treated like a
goldfish a kid won at the fair but then got sick of. I’ve been in too many
relationships where I’ve tried to mend the wounded bird and then the bird took
off and spewed diarrhea all over my car. In my thirties I’m done dealing with little
boys that never grew up. Bye Felicia. Bye Ferdinand. Bye all you cunts.

All I’m saying is that I’m a girl, standing in front of
a boy, asking him not to get attached. Also pay our fucking tab and be nice to
your mother.

Monday, October 10, 2016

As mentioned in my previous entry, I am trying to ease
myself back into the dating scene. Actually, fuck that. I haven’t eased in. I
jumped in head first without even checking how shallow the water was and
risking breaking my god damn neck. Whatever. Big risks equal incurable STD’s
right?

Friday night I had a date with my number one internet D.
I had a good feeling about this one. The dude seemed normal. He wasn’t overly
attractive so I didn’t get nervous potential diarrhea about meeting up with
him. Being the more attractive one always gives you a good upper hand and
ensures you won’t be paying for shit. He found a bar that was totally my style,
very dark so my under eye wrinkles are hidden and my smeared eyeliner looks
like an on purpose smoky eye, and had decent beers on tap so I wouldn’t have to
pretend that I truly believe Miller High Life is the champagne of beers.
(Spoiler alert: it is not, unless you are from Wisconsin.)

Parking was a little aggressive near the bar so I had to
do a drive by to circle around and saw my date standing outside the bar. Initially,
was not attracted to him. But, during my extensive and tragic dating career I’ve
learned that physical attraction can happen later. Or after 16 jager bombs and
an ecstasy pill. I’m not going to lie, the shallow skeezy little bitch in me
half considered bailing and going back home to my cat, Netflix, nacho cheese
Doritos and wine; but like I’ve said before I’ve already accumulated some
fucked up dating karma and I’d like to not have a shitshow date sometime in
2017, maybe?

I parked, walked up to the bar, greeted the internet D
and told myself either way I’d probably have a good time. Turns out, I’m an
idiot. I did not have a good time. In fact, I would have rather been curled up on
my bathroom floor expelling waste from all of my orifices. I hope the internet
D reads this and learns something. Because this is how you lose the chance to
touch a girl’s vagina, or if you’re Donald Trump, grab a woman by the pussy.

1. Create a
scene that makes your date feel uncomfortable.

As we walked up to the front door of the bar, there was
a cute little old man in a wheelchair checking ID’s. He was chatting with a
couple and so I stood to the side, patiently holding my ID and waiting my turn.
Internet D loudly proclaims, despite the fact that NOBODY WAS FUCKING LOOKING
AT HIM OR TALKING TO HIM, “She’s with me!” and drags me into the bar. What in
all the fucking fucks!? Instantly I hated this man. I am not with you. I am
with her. And by her I mean anyone else in the bar besides you. That was my
first impression of Internet Dbag. After this awkward scene at the door,
Internet Dbag proceeds to throw a fit that someone was sitting at “his table”
as I awkwardly sat by myself at a different table because who gives a fuck
about what table we sit at you fucking psychopath. Literally 3 minutes into
this date and I contemplated murder/suicide. Shut. it. down.

2. Take your
date to a bar that you basically live at and all of your friends work at.

It became very clear, very quickly that Internet Dbag
was a regular at this bar. It was like a fucked up Cheers episode. The bartender
was his best friend. Which in theory sounds great, except he was a freak of
fucking nature. As I uncomfortably tried to get past the fact that I hated this
dude and make polite conversation, his friends kept walking by our table and
high fiving him like he just lost his virginity. They didn’t acknowledge my presence, nor did
they congratulate my vagina. Who at this point had sealed shut like a fucking
dungeon. Rude. I like attention, but I don’t want to be shown off like a prized
pony. I’m a person. I don’t want to hear your side conversations with your
friend about your last circle jerk. PAY ATTENTION TO ME OR DIE. Also, his
running commentary on what his friends behind me were doing while I was talking
made me want to slice him open from throat to sternum with a fucking butter
knife. This rage is real.

3. Talk about
all the famous people you’ve met.

I tend to avoid dating dudes who live in Los Angeles. Mainly
because I don’t give a shit if you’re an out of work “actor” who handed
Channing Tatum a water bottle once and now you think Channing Tatum is your
friend. Channing Tatum doesn’t give a fuck about you. Channing Tatum wouldn’t
let you towel off his ball sweat. CHANNING TATUM IS BUSY. Lo and behold, people
in Orange County still think they are best friends with celebrities. Internet
Dbag talked over me constantly to talk about celebrities he’s met who think he’s
the tits. In summary: Iggy Pop, Hunter S. Thompson (RIP), the Descendants (the
whole band) and Nine Inch Nails (the whole band) think this guy is so great
they basically want to pull down his pants and kiss his ass. Pretty sure it’s
more likely that I’m going to grow a third tit out of my armpit. Iggy Pop doesn’t
care about you. I saw Iggy Pop perform once and almost pull his dick out and I
know that Iggy Pop and I are not friends. THIS IS REAL LIFE.

4. Start talking
about our next date when I’m clearly casing my exits so I can get the fuck out of here.

My face doesn’t lie. When I’m not having a good time, it
goes beyond resting bitch face. I’m pretty sure the words “I’m having a bad
time” actually appear on my forehead in flashing lights. Everyone in that bar,
maybe even the entire city, knew I was not having a good time. But dipshit was
too distracted by his homies, the tv, his own idiocy to notice that I hated the
sound of his voice. He mentioned three follow up dates. ARE YOU DUMB? Did you
not notice that each time you mentioned another date I stared into my beer and
clicked my feet three times hoping a tornado would hit and we would all die? No
I don’t want to go to the wine bar that your friends own where you drink “$100.00
bottles of wine” and I sure as fuck don’t want to go to Big Bear with you and
your family who are probably just as obnoxious as you are. I WOULD RATHER GET A
COLONOSCOPY, PAP SMEAR, AND ROOT CANAL AT THE SAME TIME THAN HANG OUT WITH YOU AGAIN.
Good day, sir. I SAID GOOD DAY!

5. Mention an
ex. Any ex. EVER.

I’m 67% sure I asked dude if he’d ever been married
before. I might be wrong, so I won’t harp on the potential lie. But everyone,
every single person in the entire world, knows that you do not under any
circumstances talk about your ex. Sure you might need to mention her once,
especially to say you were married before but are now divorced. But do I need
to know that your ex was there that time Iggy Pop metaphorically blew you
backstage? NOPE. Not relevant to the story. Do I need to know that your ex who
you were only “briefly” married to is somehow the focal point of every single
fucking story of your entire 40 years of life? FUCK NOPE. Next time, just do
everyone a favor and immediately start crying into your beer about how you miss
her because clearly you’re a tragic ass mess. I can at least then leave the bar
with another dude guilt free. BYE.

6. Brag. At all.
About anything.

If you’ve done cool shit, that’s awesome. Good for you.
If it seems relevant to our conversation to throw in an interesting fact about
yourself, go for it. If you completely take our conversation off topic to brag
about something, GO FUCK YOURSELF. Example, I was talking about the last
concert I’d gone to. This guy blurts out, “I’ve been shot and stabbed.” Listen Terri
(not it’s real name), no one fucking asked you. I’m slightly interested to hear
how these things happened, but because you interrupted the 2 seconds you gave
me to speak to brag, I will not hear your story. I will act like a child and
cover my ears to not hear the words coming out of your face. I will stab my
eardrums out to not hear one fucking thing you are about to say. My entire soul
hates you.

7. Refuse to
accept defeat.

I tried to be polite and hold out for as long as I could
on this sinking ship of shit. But eventually it became too much. I started
throwing out hints that no one was touching genitals today. I declined another
drink. (Breathe in, I know this is shocking.) I started yawning. I pulled out
my phone and feigned surprise like, “Oh my gosh it’s already 11:00!?”. Mother
fucker refused to let it go. He suggested a second location. A second location?
Unless it’s a shallow grave somewhere, no fucking thanks man. When I realized
that he was not going to let this not be awkward, I summoned my inner bitch,
looked him right in the eyes and said, “I’m going home.” He looked surprised.
Probably the same face I made when Donald Trump actually became a viable option
for President. WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING. Is this real life? He honestly
thought he was getting somewhere. If females had the same false sense of
confidence that dudes have, it would be insane. We would legitimately run shit.
This refusal to accept defeat created the most awkward walk to my car where I
did one of those hugs where none of your body parts touch theirs and peeled out
of the parking lot like I just kicked someone’s baby. Clearly, even the molestey
uncle hug and peel out wasn’t an indication that I was not at all interested.
Dude texted me yesterday like things were good. You guys, I just can’t.

Dudes, on a real note, us ladies make a lot of effort
when we go on a date. I know I definitely down play it, but I do stress over
what to wear, if my make-up looks good, what the fuck my bangs are doing, and
if my ass looks video girl luscious or Kim Kardashian pregnant horrifying. Don’t
make me go through all that effort just to be a douchebag. Shut your fucking
mouth and listen. Don’t take me to a bar and make me hang out with your friends
and feel uncomfortable. Don’t talk about your ex. Don’t brag. Don’t keep trying
to take the banter to a sexual level if I’m blatantly refusing to take the
conversation there. I get it, you’re trying to be funny. I’M NOT LAUGHING.

I’m not giving up. I’ll respond to your message One­_Man_Party
in a minute. But I’m not taking any shit. And if I’m not laughing, you’re not
getting laid. So if you wanted to tell me about how you toweled off Channing
Tatum’s balls, DON’T. But feel free to tell me that story about how you shit
your pants in a Costco as an adult man with bills. That, I want to know about.

Thursday, October 6, 2016

You guys, something really amazing happened. It's been on my bucket list since MTV brought us the life changing and thought provoking reality show, Cat Fish. My name is Jenn and I have always wanted to be catfished.

In my fantasy I've been talking to a super cute, super funny, girthy (in relation to the D obviously) dude and I'm really into it. Like, I'm naming all the puppies and freezing the 3 potential eggs I have left in case he wants a baby to take care of by himself in the future. He has some legit sounding excuses about why we can't meet up. Like he takes care of his sick mother and she thinks girls with tattoos and piercings are the devil and might try to baptize me in pig's blood in their bath tub or that he takes care of his 9 nieces and nephews because his sister has a gaping vagina and babies just fall out and he's trying to be a supportive sibling. But finally, it's happening and the world is like a big fucking rainbow land with unicorns and shit. But when I walk into the shitty dive bar where our love is going to blossom, the only person waiting is a large, sassy black woman. I immediately burst into tears, screaming "How could you!? I looooooooved hiiiiiiiiim!!!!!" and throw a chair through a window. I mean can't you just picture it? Doesn't it give you all of the feels to imagine it all?

I've gone on more dates with dudes from the internet than I'd like to admit. But I only fucked like half of them so I'm still doing alright.

Anyway, I've been doing OkCupid up super hard these past couple of weeks. I'm trying to buy a house and not pay rent so I'm legit trolling for a dude with a super sweet apartment, ample parking, and a little balcony area for my future puppy to hang out on. Goals mother fuckers, goals.

Currently I've got my number one internet man friend, and then my back up D and the back up back up D. My number one D has a fucked up work schedule and lives kinda far from me so that fucking blows. So I've accumulated the back up D who lives closer, probably doesn't work, and is also kind of a shitshow. And then the back up back up D who I'm not super sure about. He seems cool but all over the place. He might be married, he might be a serial killer, or maybe even a hoarder of cat carcasses. So it's kind of like 3 dicks, 1 vagina.

Today was a bad day. Like the kind of day when you need a vodka drink by 10:30 a.m. and consider starting a trash can fire just to get the fuck away from work. Clearly when back up back up D texted me promising free drinks and food after work I was down. I'm above sucking a dick for a diet coke, but a couple vodka tonics and spinach artichoke dip and things can get crazy. Since he's my third ranking D I didn't give a shit about wearing my boring ass work clothes or brushing my hair. Girl needed some booze. I walked into the bar and immediately noticed a dude sitting at the bar that totally fucking phantomed on me like a year or more ago. I thought it was weird because dude lives in Silverlake and didn't really troll LB but there he was. I was stoked on the prospect of putting my tongue in someone's mouth right in front of his face.

I walked around to the other side of the bar and sat down. I pulled out my phone to be like bro, I'm thirsty where the fuck is you? Phantom dude sits down next to me. Before I can hiss in his face he says, "So I owe you that vodka tonic with extra limes right?". MOTHER FUCKER. Dude catfished me. He changed his cell phone number, used someone else's picture on OkCupid and tried to re-date me. What in all of the fucks of the world!? I tried to squeeze out some fake tears but I've been beaten down by life ya'all and I don't have any fake tears left to give. I thought about throwing a chair, but there were some burly looking chicks nearby that looked like they would've gladly stabbed me for ruining their buzz. So I chugged my free vodka tonic, slammed the glass down, and did what Beyonce told me to do. Put both middle fingers up and yell boy bye. I really did that you guys. And it was AWESOME. I will never feel guilty about forcing my phone to call me Beyonce ever again.

I feel validated. I never understood why that dude phantomed on me and now I know he's been staying up every single night, sobbing and eating chips in bed and blacking out on whiskey by himself in his apartment. Wondering where his life went wrong and what he's missing. And then realizing it's ME, BITCH. Should I feel weirded out that he stalked me little bit? Hell no. I am worthy of being stalked. Am I bummed out that I no longer have a back up back up D? NOPE.

Ladies, next time you're wondering if that dude who phantomed on you is living a happy life and doing super awesome, know this. He's not. He's crying. And he should be. Because you, me and Beyonce are the fucking tits. And let's be real, I'm too fucking tired for a back up back up D.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

I haven’t written in a minute. I
wish I could say it’s because my life has been super awesome and I’ve been
TFDing into the wee (or god willing not so wee) hours and living life instead
of writing about it. But that would make me a dirty fucking liar, and truth is
my thing. The gritty, dirty, possibly STD-covered truth is what I’m about.

So the herpes truth is that every time I’ve started to
write it’s gotten dark. Like real dark. Like Fairuza Balk wanting to get
penetrated by the devil in The Craft kinda dark. Basically, my dog died and I
lost any sliver of happy I had in me.

I get it. There are refugee orphans drowning in the
ocean and terrorist attacks and innocent people dying every day. But honestly
for the past few months I don’t have any sad to give anywhere else. Friends and
family have gone through shit and I’ve got nothing. Stupid boys with beards hit
me up and I didn’t care. Not even a little bit. Basically, like RIP my vagina.
No one will ever disappoint you again.

I realized sitting in my roach infested oven of an
apartment with my blind cat who was equally depressed about losing his
BFF/heterosexual life partner with no family or friends in Long Beach to bring
me sadness burritos was legitimately going to cause me to take a Whitney
Houston bath.

So, guys, you’ll be happy to hear that I’m back with my
roommates that birthed me. My mom wouldn’t let me get back into the womb, selfish
bitch, but I did the next best thing and moved into the lady cave at my parent’s
house. AND I’M NOT FUCKING SORRY ABOUT IT.

Oh, your roommate doesn’t offer to bring you a breakfast
burrito before you even get out of bed? SUCKS FOR YOU. Oh and you have to buy
your own toilet paper, paper towels, peanut butter, bread, etc.? Not me mother
fuckers that shit is just magically there for my use. BOOM.

I mean real talk, I struggled with the decision to take
a few steps back from adulthood by moving back home. But here’s the thing, I
won’t be broke anymore. And I’ll be forced to be a human being by interacting
with people other than my coworkers that make me want to stab my eyeballs out
of my head. And I’m motivated to take some huge steps into adulthood by saving
to buy a house. BY MYSELF. MY HOUSE BITCHES. I mean I already have the super
sweet bar cart and wine fridge so I’m halfway there.

Also I won’t have to share my dinner with roaches. Or
hear my neighbors scream at each other, and at their children, and at their
dogs, or just for fun. And I have air conditioning. Like all the time. I mean
basically I’m going from hell to a cool 70 degrees kinda hell. That’s all I ask
out of life man.

Oh and your probably wondering what’s going to happen to
TFDing now that I live with the people that birthed me. Well, let me tell you
this. Nothing encourages you to go out trolling when your other option is
watching 65 hours of COPS re-runs, the history channel, or HGTV with two old
people that have the TV on so fucking loud your eardrums start bleeding. I
would even go home with a 3. My standards have infinitely dropped since I hit
30.

I mean I already have 3 okcupid dates lined up for the
next couple of weeks. Personally, I’m rooting for the single dad with a
mustache. But the chef who might be balding could definitely pull ahead if he
cooks me dinner wearing just an apron.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

I’ve been MIA for a while because
to be perfectly honest I haven’t felt funny. This blog isn’t about white girls
bitching about other bitches being bitches. I mean I’ve had a few of those
(calling all Cunty Carol’s) but that’s not what this is supposed to be about.
So let’s get our glasses of wine/shots of vodka/beer bongs/champagne
bongs/spliffs/joints/bongs, etc. ready for some real talk.

A couple of weeks ago my best friend/life
partner/partner in crime/life coach/furry child passed away. I had Hercules for
20 years. This is not a joke or an exaggeration, though I know I’m good at both
things. This dog was by my side for literally two decades. He made me laugh.
Like one of his last practical jokes when he took a hot shit on the floor and
conned my friend into stepping in it with her bare feet. Even better was she
was too drunk to realize it had literally encased her foot and woke up the next
morning on my floor with shit still caked in between her toes. I think I burst
some blood vessels from laughing at that. He made me cry. Like when I purchased
a beautiful new rug and he looked me right in the eyes and took a 2 minute piss
on the formerly beautiful new rug. He’d be happy to know that the piss rug
still remains in my apartment. I’m not aging well, perhaps it’ll be covered in
my urine soon.

But best of all he made me get my ass out of bed every morning
even when I felt like I couldn’t and I hated everything and wanted to never
wake up. He relied on me and he needed me and I got my ass out of bed every day
because I didn’t want to disappoint him. If you’ve never had a dog or are a
heartless son of a bitch you probably have no idea what I’m talking about. And to
that I say, GO FUCK YOURSELF.

The past few weeks I feel like Eeyore. And not in the
cute way. Like the super fucked up way where it’s like all the little things
that used to make me happy seem stupid and my life feels heavy and every time I
see a picture of a dog on the internets I want to throw up.

I have my cat. But anyone who has/had a cat and a dog
knows it’s not the same. My pup was obsessed with me. Seriously. Even when he
was an old man and moving around hurt and he was tired, he was at my heels
every step I took. I can’t tell you how many times I damn near lost my life
tripping over him. Now that’s dedication. I am positive my cat has tried to
kill me numerous times. Like when I was in college and my roommate and I lived
in a two story apartment and he hid on the stairs and then attacked me so I
fell halfway down the stairs with my laundry basket and possibly broke every
rib in my body. Attempted murder. Or when he sat on my face as I was sleeping
and tried to suffocate me with his fat ass. Attempted murder. Also I know my
cat doesn’t need me. He may be blind, but he’s a fucking boss ass bitch. I wouldn’t
fuck with him if I was a cat. To be honest I’m a grown ass woman and I’m scared
of him. I’m that dog in the YouTube video tip toeing past the cat because I don’t
want the wrath of Satan. He pretends he needs me, like when he cries into my
mouth when he’s hungry. But the second he gets what he wants, the only thanks I
get is a sneak attack claw to the ass cheek and he’s over me for the next 3-4
hours until he’s hungry again. I am an abused cat mom.

So anyway, I’ve been feeling really rough.

I’m trying to be positive. I mean now that I don’t have
to worry about my furry kid all the time I have more freedom. I don’t have to
rush home to walk him and make sure my cat hasn’t eaten him. If I want to go
out and leave the bar with a 4 I totally can and my dog won’t be there to judge
me. And if I realize outside of bar lighting he’s a 2 I can just let my cat
kill him. (Kidding, sort of.) Spontaneous road trips to the Bay are no problem.
I know I won’t black out and buy weird ass things on Amazon like silicone paw
print baking sheets. (No regrets though to be perfectly honest.) But I can’t
seem to convince myself that these things make up for what I lost.

My little brother, who has become my life
coach/spiritual advisor/voice of reason/sponsor, gave me a pep talk. He told me
that my dog was my excuse for a lot of things. It was harsh, but once I got
past wanting to stab him with a butter knife I realized he was totally right. I
had pretty much given up on serious dating and relationships because I knew
there wasn’t a dude that would ever be as important to me as my dog. And let’s
be real, no dude wants to be second choice to a dog. I don’t blame him. Instead
of working on my shit, I just put all my energy into dog mom life. Which believe
me, when you have a dog that has moved into geriatric years, is a full-time
job. Now that I don’t have that, what the fuck do I do with myself?

Also when you experience a major loss in your life it
makes you re-evaluate EVERYTHING. Your friendships, your lifestyle, who the
fuck you actually are. When people found out about my dog I got texts, phone
calls, flowers, Facebook messages, etc. People that were thousands of miles
away and in a different time zone texted or called me to send me some love. People
frantically called local flower shops to make special requests for cheerful
bouquets to bring some happiness to my sad, sad home. As cheesy as it sounds,
it made me realize that I have some fanfuckingtastic people in my universe. It
also made me realize that the people who couldn’t bother, are irrelevant to me.
I had been holding onto some “friendships” that had long been dead and this
pushed me to let them go completely. Bitching about stupid shit over drinks is what
friends do. But when it gets to the point that every hangout becomes a
negative, woe is me situation, sorry but I’ve got to bow out. I need some
positive energy and if I have to break some ties and look elsewhere for it, I will.

I also realized that Long Beach is not the place for me.
I don’t care about fitting in and being cool and fucking people’s
ex/current/kind of boyfriends to get attention. I’ve lived here off and on for years
and I can say I’ve only created a few solid friendships. And those people don’t
even live here anymore. I’m not blaming everyone else. But it’s become clear
that this is not where my happy place is. If you feel like an outsider in your
own neighborhood, it seems like a clear sign to move the fuck on. I’m actually
looking forward to seeing where my next venture takes me. And the opportunity to
leave behind a lot of dead weight. No matter where I go, I’ll maintain my blue
hair don’t care lifestyle. Never sorry.

Another “adulting” step I took was banning all free
dating websites. Clearly that was not for me. Yeah it was entertaining meeting
some shitshows. But ultimately, I don’t want to wake up next to a shitshow
every morning. I’ve mostly retired from mid-week blackouts and at 31 years old
it’s not cute to show up to work with barf in my hair and a smeared eyebrow. Only
on casual Fridays. And the Monday after a three-day weekend. Obviously. I’m not
done with dating. I mean I still have a functioning vagina and I’m in my prime
or whatever science says. The left side of my bed is also super empty and
devoid of fur now. So I made the sacrifice of not getting the Thai takeout I
really wanted (white girl problems) and signed up for Match.com. I figure if
people pay, they must be at least a little more serious and I know they aren’t
poor. (Sidenote: dudes on okcupid get your fucking life together. If you can’t
afford to meet a girl for a drink at a bar, stop trying to date and get a
fucking job. FUCK.) So far, it’s been kind of an LOL situation. Can someone please
create a dating website for people that are serious but aren’t trying to impregnate
me immediately? For real. I’ve gotten 4 “winks”, I think 2 messages and some
fucking stars or something. But all these dudes want babies. Like tomorrow.
Maybe that’s what I should do with my newfound free time. Create a dating
website, that costs money to weed out some assholes, for people that are looking
for relationships but don’t want kids. Letsboneandnotmakebabies.com. Someone
help me copyright that shit. Although so far match.com has been quite the
disappointment, at least I think it’s taking a step in the right direction. And
it’s kept me from letting my neighbor penetrate me because he has a really cute
puppy I’d like to be stepmom to.

Baby steps guys. Drunk baby steps.

In all seriousness though, thank you to the people that
have helped me try to find some happiness again. The people that have shown up
at my door and dragged me out into the world because they know I would never
ask them to but I needed them to. The people that have stood back and given me space
but make sure I know they’re around. The people that let me ugly cry and then
ugly cry laugh when they brought up a story involving my crazy furry kid. The
people that have forced me to look at myself and make some changes in my life
since what I’m doing right now isn’t working. And the people that did nothing
at all so I feel no guilt about letting them go and walking away.

If you need someone to kill a bottle of booze with you
and talk about poop, call me. I’m ready.

Friday, May 27, 2016

For my fellow uterus carriers out there, you can back me
up on this, bleeding from your vagina fucking sucks. Not only do the 5-7 days
of your period ruin your life, but the 3-4 days before and after aren’t magical
either. The day or two before the red sea comes through I always wake up with
one chin pimple. I know, I know. Poor fucking me with my one pimple. But I’m
telling you, this pimple is a mother fucking demon from hell. It’s bigger than
my 19 pound dog and it hurts and it’s angry and it stays with me for what feels
like 5-7 years.

Also the awesomeness of feeling like you’re 6 months
pregnant, even though you’re clearly not because your uterus is punishing you
for NOT being pregnant, because you’re bloated as fuck. The bloating leads to
needing to pee every 76 seconds. Suddenly I’m a 98 year old woman and can’t get
drunk because I’m peeing faster than I can consume shots of alcohol.

I’m positive the only internal organ I have that
punishes me for not procreating is my uterus. The rest of my body is like, “Fuck
yeah! Dodged that bullet for another month!”. Some people (dudes) might say it’s
cool that our boobs get slightly bigger. True, they do. However, they hurt so
much I would quickly turn any dude into a eunuch who tries to touch them.
Seriously, I will turn you into Theon Greyjoy so fucking fast no one will be
able to save you. The rolling red sea comes with rolling rage blackouts so you
better get your shit together people.

My favorite thing is the emotional turmoil my uterus
causes me. Those commercials of the orphaned kittens, puppies, babies, rabbits,
etc. with Sarah McLachlan singing sadly in the background make me LOSE MY
FUCKING SHIT. Seriously. That’s not an animal being murdered. That’s me sobbing
hysterically and clutching both my pets as they struggle to flee my smothering
love. It’s not just orphans, it’s old people too. I saw a cute older couple
walking down the street holding hands and I turned into a fucking psychopath. I
tried to hug them while ugly crying and wiping snot off my face and probably
barely escaped getting arrested. Non-bleeding me would never display this kind
of emotion in public. Also I only ugly cry when the direwolves in Game of
Thrones die. WHICH THEY ALWAYS FUCKING DO YOU GOD DAMN MASOCHISTS. Don’t even
get me started on watching that show while I’m having my own personal red
wedding. I can’t even live. Get a gun.

In summary, I am by all definitions a nightmare when I’m
having my blessed menses. Generally I will avoid dudes and dates during this
rough time for the safety of all parties. But then I realized, why? It’s not
like dudes have ever saved me from their man periods. I can’t even tell you how
many times I’ve had to shove snacks down a dudes throat because he’s having a
hangry meltdown and losing his shit in public. He may not have blood spewing
from his vagina but he’s definitely bloated and being a real bitch. So I
decided to see if when all the pretense is gone and a dude is getting the raw
dog version of me, can he hang?

I met up with a dude from the internets for drinks. It
went about as well as coming out of the closet at a church in the deep South
holding hands with your black boyfriend.

First of all, the demon pimple was in its full glory. There
literally is not enough concealer to pretend it’s not happening. So there’s
that. Also my uterus was trying to exit my body through either my belly button
or my asshole. At any moment she might succeed and make a break for it so I made
sure I wore a skirt for an easy escape, ain’t nobody got time for ripped pants,
and shoes that I could run in. I probably should have sent him an updated
pictured with 13 less filters and with a more anatomically correct chin angle.
Whatever.

I could tell he was instantly terrified as I immediately
shoved 6 pain killers down my throat when the bartender put my drink in front
of me. He looked concerned so I eased his worry by saying, “Don’t worry it’s
for my contracting uterus. At least I’m not pregnant!”. I’m 50% sure he thought
maybe I was pregnant and was trying to not be pregnant by consuming medication
and alcohol. Maybe he did kind of get my vibe.

Even better than my glossed over expression while he
talked about his “life” and whatever was that I had to pee every 3 minutes.
Seriously. There is already too much happening near my bladder. She can’t be
bothered holding in a little urine. She’s BUSY. The good thing was I could make
him start his story again over and over since I couldn’t retain one fucking
word he was saying at me. By the time I was on drink three I had gone full
Terri Schaivo. I don’t even know if I told him I was calling my Uber. Did I
call an Uber? Not important.

Needless to say, don’t expect any wedding announcements
from me in 2019. Dude sent an obligatory, “Are you feeling better?” text to
which I replied, “My uterus is trying to murder me.” It’s been radio silence
since.

It sounds cheesy but I’m going to live the mantra, “If
you can’t handle me at hungover then you don’t get to handle me at blacked out
and horny.” In the future I will bring my angry uterus, granny panties, chin
demon and muscle relaxers to all of my dates. Bye boy if you can’t handle it.